


Winter sea

by edvic



Series: and winter again [1]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Friendship, Implied Mpreg, M/M, POV Alternating, Post-Canon, Secret Identity, Some angst, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-12
Updated: 2018-04-22
Packaged: 2019-04-22 02:07:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14298435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edvic/pseuds/edvic
Summary: The invitation in her hands glimmers in the candlelight. Navy blue ink of names, letters that surely weren’t written down by her son’s hand; the silver of the card. She wonders who picked it, the colour. It must have been him. Whoever he is....Two years after his sudden disappearance, Percival Graves comes back to New York. He's not alone.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Repost with some changes. This time to be finished.

It’ll be the scandal of the decade, Mrs. Graves thinks.

The invitation in her hands glimmers in the candlelight. Navy blue ink of names, letters that surely weren’t written down by her son’s hand; the silver of the card. She wonders who picked it, the colour. It must have been him. Whoever he is.

It’s a surprise. If Arcturus was still with them, he’d tell Percival what happens to men falling for foreign fortunes and princes from far-away lands.

She should’ve known. She should’ve kept him home instead of letting him go Merlin knows where.

After the attack he was quiet, too quiet. At first at least. Then, when the numbness passed, he kept walking around his apartment, insisting that he was fine, even if his eyes were telling her a different story. He wasn’t taking his potions. Instead, he was spending hours in front of the greenish fire, yelling at people she thought were his friends. Miss Seraphina was first. She had never seen him this angry with anyone, but though her curiosity made her wonder, she didn’t dare to ask.

Then there was another woman, Miss Tina, and for half a day Mrs. Graves was almost sure Miss Tina was Percival’s sweetheart. It was almost ridiculous to imagine it, that her son could spare a minute of thought to something as trivial as romance, and soon she realized that yes, Miss Tina was nothing more than a friend. And an Alpha.

Poor creature , Mrs. Graves thinks, remembering their first meeting.

Miss Tina is a kind girl and a talented one too, if she’s to believe Percival’s judgement, but with a status like hers… There’s nothing one can do about these things.

The house is silent when she leaves the living room at last; her steps echo in the the corridor. It’s been a long time since Percival’s last visit.

After the anger, one day, out of nowhere, he announced his leave. Miss Tina was there too. And the Englishman, Mr. Scamander. No one could stop him. Like a storm, he swept through his drawers and before they could do as much as blink, he was gone.

They’re probably with child , Mrs. Graves thinks. There is no other explanation to Percival’s haste.

The stairs seem longer at night then they are during the day and she goes up slowly, stopping two times to catch her breath.

Arcturus is sleeping soundly in his portrait. Funny that the painter didn’t capture his snoring.

It would be nice to have someone around, she thinks. Someone other than house elves.

 

* * *

 

 

On the ship, mornings are a lazy affair.

In the lavish suite, they don’t have to care for much.

“Biscuits?” He hears Percival ask, and though he has no desire to open his eyes yet, the scent lures him to move closer.

If only they could see the sun, Credence thinks, remembering their last days in Portofino. The terrace, the soft breeze, the sea, the long hours filled with books and herbs and the occasional glass of wine. Percival’s eyes on his tanned arms, his own hands on Percival’s knees; he misses it already.

Their tranquil past is a memory. Their future, so unsure, is hidden in mist; like the shore of England was only yesterday.

Next to him, Percival’s body is a solid weight. He’s sitting up already, newspaper in his hands, glasses on his nose.  _ Old man _ , Credence calls him at times, teasing. The gray of Percival’s hair received many soft kisses throughout these past two years.

From the odd angle Credence can see a moving picture - it’s Percival himself, a bit younger perhaps, without the stern line between his brows - and the title screams at him in black letters:  _ Beguiled or bewitched? _

“They’re writing about us,” he says, head lying down in Percival’s lap. “Do you think they’ll print my photo when we arrive?”

A hand runs through his hair, caressing, and yet the newspaper stays in place, held up by magic alone.

“Would you like them to?” He can hear the smile in Percival’s words. “I could send them the one we took in Theo’s garden.”

He shakes his head and it fits perfectly into Percival's palm, cupping his face. Thumb against bone, his eyes fluttering shut; the skin underneath stretches when Percival strokes his cheek.

The smell of him falls on Credence in slow, measured waves, tickling his nose and threatening to make him sneeze. As usually, Percival is a little bit warmer than him, the blood in his veins hot, pulsing faster. It calls Credence the same way his scent called Percival two years ago, back when he thought he was dead, hiding in shadows until numb darkness turned into a cold night and he felt something else. The craving.

Sometimes, when he can't sleep at night and moonlight dances on Percival's scars - he likes to compare them with his own;  _ this _ , he thinks,  _ this too makes us one _ \- it's clear that they saved each other, time after time. Not only in this world, but in many other worlds before. His shadows know about them and they whisper about it in his dreams - worlds different than the one they were born into, worlds high above the the surface of the earth, among the stars, and worlds hidden deep in the darkness under their feet.

Percival doesn't want to talk about it; there's still too much pain in him, too much regret to talk about their past freely. For him, there is no other world - there is only this world, the one where he failed to protect Credence.

But for Credence it's easy. When they had found each other, had claimed each other, back when they knew nothing about the threat hovering above their heads, lurking in the shadows as they kissed, their fates tied.

Now they can’t get rid of each other.

Not that he would want to get rid of Percival.

In a way, Percival is the end of Credence’s life as he knew it, and the beginning of what he knows now. He’s more, too. He’s the moon bringing the tide and the stars guiding Credence home; he’s the lazy morning filled with laughter and the crack of wood burning green.

But he’s not everything. He’s not the long night full of whispers or the water turning into silver under Credence’s fingers; he’s not the angry chatter with an Italian herbologist. He’s not the lost ginger cat. These things, they’re all Credence.

Credence  _ is _ . Percival  _ is  _ too. Together, they are, sometimes.

_ Sometimes  _ is enough; it’s more than dead men should expect.

Thinking about his own death - the last one and others, all the times he had died before - Credence drapes himself in the morning laziness and the warmth gathered around Percival's stomach. He's so close his nose presses into Percival’s navel and he feels the quiet laugh rumbling deep in him. And - as if happiness could be transferred through skin - Credence smiles too, arms curling around Percival so tightly he may as well try squeezing the last breath out of his lungs.

The fingers in his hair curl, massaging his scalp in slow circles. The newspaper is gone.

Credence knows he's been clingy lately. Lazy. That he's been avoiding going out. Neglecting his work. One evening last week, back at Theseus Scamander’s place, he hissed at their host like an angry cat when Percival’s hand landed on his old friend’s arm.

Seeing Credence’s distress, Theseus backed away.

Traveling by ship is troublesome for his senses - too many people in the dining room, too many scents, too many perfumes - but it's a price he's ready to pay. A play staged so carefully there's no place for a single mistake.

In the evenings, they have to emerge out of their suite. To eat dinner, to dance, to pretend they care. Maybe Percival does care, Credence thinks, breathing in the musky scent of his sweat, lingering on his skin after the warm night. For him, it’s a game of pretend, one he's willing to play to make sure Percival is safe.

He wasn’t safe in Italy.

He wasn’t safe in England.

He may not be safe in New York either.

Credence pushes the thought away.

Instead, his lips open, mouthing the soft flesh of Percival's belly, and he presses in, the stubble on his chin scratching Percival's skin. He keeps it going, tasting Percival on his tongue, his cheek grazing Percival's side, up to his ribs and down again, and he feels his own saliva on Percival’s skin. He moves in circles, and his kisses fall on Percival in odd shapes, hieroglyphs none of them decipher.

At first, Credence doesn't pay attention to anything - there's only Percival, his skin, his hair, scent, scars - but then there are Percival's fingers too, tracing watery shapes on his bare back and down his arm, supporting him when he moves up and loses his center of gravity, ready to fall off their bed and bring them both onto the floor.

And there's the heat of Percival's arousal, the scent of it so heavy Credence can't stop wondering if a passer-by could feel it behind their closed door; if it travels outside, into the long corridor and up the stairs, to the small chapel, to the altar.

Under the covers, he can feel the shape of it, heavy and familiar. Percival is moving, rocking gently into his embrace.

His hand stops halfway between the round edge of Percival's shoulder and his right nipple. A slow smile quirks his lips up. He bares his teeth; the smile leaves a mark above Percival's hipbone. This, this is something he knows.

The scar under his ear itches. It's an odd, unexpected sensation. Catching him off guard, it makes him blink and draw in a sharp breath.

"Credence?" There's concern in Percival's voice, something dark clouding his mind. He never stops worrying. "Love?"

For a long moment he stays where he is, lost, with arms wrapped around Percival's waist, panting into Percival's skin. He doesn't understand.

Something is wrong, but he can't pinpoint the exact source of his discomfort. It spreads, lazily, sleepily, as if there is still a chance it’s nothing more than an illusion, a shadow of a dream.

And then, when he keeps holding his breath long enough, listening to his body talk, it blooms.

He breathes again, muscles contracting around his ribs like wild ivy around the columns in Theseus’ garden, and the air rumbles in his throat, never reaching his lungs.

He coughs.

He tries to move away.

Percival lets him go.

He coughs again.

“Credence?”

He hears just fine, but his own name feels odd in his ears. He doesn’t understand. He's underwater.

“Credence?”

There’s a hand on his shoulder and he doesn’t want it to go away. Suddenly, he’s afraid it may disappear.

His palm rests on his stomach, carefully, pressing down.

Inside, something responds.

He does it again, heel of his palm digging into the flesh, sliding lower.

His eyes flutter shut.

It hurts.

“Credence?”

His breathing is shallow, ragged. Percival is watching him. He can’t see it, but he knows.

His mouth opens to speak, but no words leave him.

He tries again. A sound he can't name escape his throat.

He reaches out, fingernails cutting the skin on Percival's arms. Closer, closer, he needs. Closer, where Percival is warm.

Credence is shaking.

It’s the cold again, the same that caught him in Italy last year.

There’s no explanation to it and no rule; there’s only disappointment when it comes.

Percival’s arms move around him, gathering what’s left of him. Bones and flesh and skin, eyes and fingers and legs.

The blood is his veins turns into ice. It hurts.

It hurts a little less when Percival is close.

 

* * *

 

She’s surprised when Mr. Graves invites her for an evening tea. The idea alone is odd - Mr. Graves drinking tea, telling her about his adventures in Europe, maybe even about his first meeting with the soon-to-be  _ new  _ Mr. Graves - and Tina fidgets nervously in front of his door.

She knocks, once and twice, and for a moment she hopes nobody’s home. She’s still not sure how she feels about it all, Mr. Graves’ sudden disappearance and his equally unexpected return. It’s all so unbelievable Tina is ready to accept the possibility of Mr. Graves making a joke out of them all.

But then, right when her hand reaches for the door one last time, she hears it. A laugh.

It’s not Mr. Graves’ laugh, of that she’s sure. Not that she had a chance to listen to Mr. Graves laughing many times, no. But there’s no mistaking. This voice is definitely not his.  It’s a bit wild and she’s not sure what to think about it. For some reason it’s hard to imagine Mr. Graves liking it.

There are steps in the corridor on the other side of the door, fast yet almost silent, and she has little time to prepare herself for what’s coming.

The door opens with a swish. First, she sees a hand, long-fingered, but not delicate. On the hand, she sees a ring. In the soft light, it blinks at her.

Her eyes follow the line of the stranger’s arm, up and up, and she can’t ignore the scar on the side of Mr. Graves fiance’s neck.

Her nose itches. She thinks she may sneeze, but she doesn’t. 

They’re bonded. They didn’t even wait for their wedding day.

It’s not like Mr. Graves, Tina thinks, but then she finally sees his face - it seems ages have passed before her eyes reached it; everything about him is so long - and her heartbeat speeds up.

Impossible, she wants to say, impossible, but the words never leave her mouth. Suddenly, she’s held in a tight embrace.

There’s something odd about this welcome, but she can’t name what exactly is bothering her. There’s something stiff about the way his arms curl around her, something a bit desperate too. Maybe, she thinks, it’s how they do it on the other side of the pond.

She’s heard the tales, the gossip. In the office, this man is like one of Newt Scamander’s mythical beasts.

Somehow, reality is even more mysterious than everything people made up after the invitations had arrived.

“Tina,” his voice is quiet and kind and again it hits her, the odd sensation of  _ knowing _ . “Percival told me everything about you.”

She’s mildly terrified hearing such news and a thousand thoughts run through her head, from her training to the day Mr. Graves had to send her to Wand Permit and it stings, the memory. Like a lot of things these days - like this man too - it reminds her of Credence.

Stepping into the flat she got to know two years ago -  _ his name is Ciro _ , he says, and she nods, trying not to stumble when a ginger cat runs across the room - she sees all the little differences, all the things letting her know it’s no longer Mr. Graves’ alone. A few more pairs of shoes, a new coat next to Mr. Graves’ blue scarf, lots and lots of pots and plants and books scattered here and there. A bit of chaos. A bit of life.

He offers her tea. Mr. Graves is nowhere to be seen.

“He’ll be home soon,” he says when she asks and she’s surprised, because she doesn’t feel awkward.

Is this the calmness Omegas are supposed to cast around like a spell? Tina doesn’t know. It doesn’t feel like the thing Queenie does sometimes.

For some reason, it reminds her of Credence. She thought… She never knew for sure. And now it’s too late to ask. There is no point in bringing back the dead.

It’s a fantasy she used to entertain herself with for some time after Mr. Graves’ sudden disappearance - Credence, rescued and well, healing somewhere far away - but the more she thought about it, the more ridiculous it seemed. Mr. Graves knew nothing about Credence and Credence knew nothing about Mr. Graves.

“Do you enjoy New York?”

It’s probably a dumb question, she knows. But she never claimed to be especially good at holding conversations.

The man - the man who looks a lot like Credence, Tina thinks, squinting her eyes - fidgets in his seat. It’s Mr. Graves’ favourite armchair. She’s seen him in it many times.

“It’s not my first time here.”

“Oh,” she says, the teacup in her hands stirring against the saucer. “Did you visit before?”

Her eyes catch the grimace crossing his face. It’s misery and struggle and concern.

She’s not sure what answer she’s waiting for. 

She's not sure what she wants to hear.

But, she thinks as the ginger cat jumps onto his lap, she'd seen strange things before. A man walking back into life on a winter afternoon wouldn't be all that different.

And if she ever had the power to bring someone back, it would've been him.

“I’ve spent some time in New York. When I was younger,” he says in the end, looking like he’s fighting veritaserum. “I do enjoy it. More than before.”

The man who’s not Credence Barebone looks at her for a long, long moment, and Tina finds it hard to hold his gaze. It’s difficult to read. There may be tears in her eyes.

“Did you-”

She stutters. She wants to ask so many questions that should never be asked.

It's dangerous, and not because _he_ may be dangerous.

The man who’s not Credence smiles a sad smile and she feels guilty and happy and conflicted at the same time and it’s too much. She wishes she could understand the things happening around her; she wishes someone could give her a manual. Or a report, like the one she filled two years ago, asking Mr. Graves for permission to follow Second Salemers.

Her mouth open, but there are no words.

Her fingers are holding the fine teacup so tightly she’s afraid she may break it.

The man who’s not Credence takes his eyes off her at last.

“I’m glad to be back,” Tina hears him say, voice so quiet it reminds her of winter wind and falling snow; of smoke curling around her fingers.

“I’m glad you’re back.”

This time, they share a smile. It’s a little bit less sad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> English is not my first language so please be kind.


	2. Chapter 2

The knife slides off his fingers so smoothly Credence barely feels the sting of the cut. It’s a clean, precise thing, one he knows will heal easily and yet, his brows furrow. It’s the fourth time this week.

First it was the razor. He could use magic for it, like Percival does, but the power of his old habits wins every time he stands in front of their bathroom mirror. Magic may be might, but he doesn’t want it anywhere near his face.

Then, the letter knife. He hasn’t seen Mrs. Graves yet, but he knows he has to win her over. At first the idea seemed terrifying - facing Percival’s mother, the quasi-mythical figure from his tales - but when the card came, carried by an owl so small it fit in Credence’s hand, the day the newspaper ran another column on Percival and his fiance, he understood. She’s not an enemy. She’s nothing like Mary Lou.

At times it’s still hard to believe people like her aren’t the norm.

At times it’s still hard to believe she won’t come back for him.

But most of the time it’s not that bad. Most of the time, he doesn’t think about her much. If not for Modesty, he wouldn’t be thinking about her at all.

He was busy thinking about Modesty when the third accident happened, on Saturday evening. Percival was reading for him, something about the goblin rising of 1757, a story both vivid and cruel in Percival's mouth, and Credence thought that Modesty would be delighted to listen to it much more than he was. Adventures were always her domain.

The thought sparked in his mind and then his fingers slipped, the needle stinging his thumb. His blood looked unexpectedly dark against the white wool.

Percival seemed alarmed, but Credence soothed his concerns easily. A kiss to his palm, another one falling on his greying hair; kneeling at his feet, Percival believed it was only an accident.

Now, another accident has happened, but Percival is nowhere near to see it.

The leaves are stained. He can’t use them anymore.

_ Prunus africana. Salvia officinalis. _ No one had tried using them together before.

He’s been slipping a few drops of his experimental mixtures in Percival’s drinks every now and then. His evening scotch, his morning coffee. The occasional cup of cocoa. Pumpkin juice. Things to chase Percival’s nightmares away, things to calm his fears down. Things to protect him. Antidotes. A drop of bezoar extract, just in case someone tries to poison him.

Credence can’t trust them, the people who betrayed Percival and killed  _ him _ .

He drinks some of his own inventions too. Percival knows a little about potions, but not as much as Newt, and even when he recognizes some of the ingredients, he rarely sees through them.

_ Trigonella foenum-graecum. Achillea millefolium. Sambucus nigra. _

He promised Percival he’d focus on keeping the cold at bay. But there are things he wants. And he’ll get them.

It feels only a little bit wrong to keep it a secret from Percival.

And really, it’s hardly a secret at all. 

They used to talk about it more, back when they had met for the first time, and later, when they ran away - Percival’s  _ maybe it’s my fault  _ lingering in the air - but these days Credence isn’t sure if Percival thinks about it at all.

_He_ does. A lot. 

He won't give up hope.

His steps are muffled by the thick rug. Percival’s idea. For Credence’s cold feet.

When the curtain moves without touching, he smiles. It never ceases to amaze him, the simplicity. How much easier his life is now, with magic. He’s just saved eight steps and lifting his arms.

His blood looks striking as it disappears down the bathroom sink. He’s not sure what to make out of it all, the tremor in his hands, the sleepiness. It’s not a heat and it makes Credence feel disappointed. He wants one so badly.

It’s been ten years since the first one. 

Looking back, Credence thinks it was beautiful, in a scary, blood freezing way. For a moment, he thought he knew what he was. It should’ve felt wrong, but it didn’t.

Not until she found out. And made it stop.

He doesn’t want to think about it but it comes back time after time. The sadness, the regret. He’s trying not be mad at things he had no power over. 

It’s the weather that’s making him think about it again, Credence thinks, looking for something warm to wear. It’s almost like time has stopped and then started going back, the needles turning and turning until this new city became the old one again.

Under his fingers, the sweaters are soft. Italian wool. He gave Tina the blue one, the one with an occamy. Newt was wearing its twin back in England when Credence was leaving.

Picking Percy's sweater from the pile, Credence sniffs. The scent helps. It soothes him.

It was Newt who told him all the important things, not Percival. In many ways, Newt is much more educated. And factual. Able to answer Credence's questions without the risk of getting a stroke.

And Credence still has so many questions. No one had explained these things to him, not beyond  _ that’s how it is _ , not even Grindelwald, and when he realized there was so much to know, to understand, he found himself interested in knowing. Sometimes it feels like he will never know as much as Newt, not after all the years he had lost, and other times an insistent voice in his head tries to tell him that he’s simply too stupid to understand, when his potions aren’t working like they’re intended to, but he knows, he feels it’s not true.

He’s not dumb. He never was.

He was good at hiding himself well.

The only thing he didn’t manage to hide was the scent.

That’s how he found him.

Looking in the mirror he can’t ignore how sickly pale his skin seems next to the navy blue of Percy’s sweater, almost see-through, just like back in the days after his death. The cold is the same too; overwhelming, it shakes him from time to time, shivers running down his forearms to his fingers.

It’s nothing new. No one knows why it keeps happening and - like many things before - Credence learned to accept it as it is. Mildly irritating as it may be, it’s not the worst thing that had ever happened to him. From time to time, he catches a cold instead of a heat, that’s it. A bad one, surely, but not  _ too  _ bad. Not deadly. Or infectious.

So far, Percival had never caught it.

And yes, he knows his heats should be more regular at twenty-six, Newt never stops talking about it, talking and writing and sulking. He knows they should be more by the book, but his system is broken, it had been for a really long time already. He barely remembers what things were like before Mary Lou hurt him. Surely, if not his first heat, she would’ve found something else to hate him for. She had never pretended to be fond of him.

Thinking about the old days makes his head thud and suddenly the lights are too bright and blinding, threatening to send him stumbling through the room.

Once more, he lifts his hand and draws the curtains. With a swish, they follow his will.

In the dark, he’s still cold.

Percival’s sweater - he wears it so rarely Credence could call it his own, by the virtue of making it and using every given occasion to steal it from Percival’s closet - is too short and ends above his wrists. His fingers keep trembling.

He knows he should work some more, he  _ wants  _ to work some more. But going back to his study could end with losing a finger and he’ll need those later.  

There’s no way to fight it now that it began.

He waves his hand and the sweaters form a neat pile. He doesn’t want to lie in bed. There’s something about it that makes him uneasy, but he never tells Percival. Maybe they should’ve stayed in Italy. Or move somewhere else. The world is a vast and wondrous place.

He curls in the corner and lets the wool embrace him. Sleeves tangle and twist and soon he’s hidden in a cocoon of bizarre shapes and colours. Under his head - moss green, still waiting for Theseus to pick it up. Around his ankles - pigeon grey for Miss Queenie, the one he barely knows if not for Newt’s stories. Next to his heart - lilac, for Mo. That’s what they’re calling her now, Percy told him. The witches in Post-Accidental Children Care adore her. He can’t blame them. She’s the bravest kid in the world. Bravest and kindest. Most reckless too, judging by Percival’s stories.

From the edge of sleep, he smiles. It warms him up, just a bit.

In dreams, his shadows find him. 

Just like him, they've changed. They protect him,  they guide him. Sometimes, they devour him.

When he wakes up, his skin tingles.

He’s still shivering, working hard to catch each breath, but there’s something else to it too, reminding him of that morning on the ship. Deep in him, something yearns to wake up.

It twists and he twists with it. 

The bones of his arms crack.

There’s a thought, running through his head, and for a moment he can see himself, curled by the wall with thirteen sweaters tangled around his body, and it’s hard to believe it’s really him. 

Credence Barebone.

Credence Barebone doesn’t waste time on books other than the holy one and he can’t mend broken glasses as easily as he can. He doesn’t share a life - a flat, a bed - with a man. He doesn’t know all the things  _ he  _ knows.

It’s fascinating and terrifying too, knowing how little and how much separates him from Credence Barebone as he once was.

This body, he thinks, and his right hand traces the line of his ribs hidden under the warm wool, this body is still the same.

His fingertips are cold, so cold that his back arches away from them, and the muscles of his stomach ripple when he moves down, mapping himself anew. He knows this body, he knows it well. Every scar, old and fresh, and the skin of his soles. The texture of his hair, cut short on his head but wiry between his legs. His own scent. Every aching bone. He should’ve chosen the bed.

He doesn’t want to get up yet.

Twisting and turning, he explores. There’s something new about him, something unnamed and he wants to know.

Suddenly, the sweaters are too much. 

He has to touch and feel, press his palm against his stomach again, waiting for pain, scratch that place behind his left ear that always makes his whole body itch so nicely, especially when Percival is near. 

When he gets up - slowly, slowly, one hand grabbing the back of a chair, the other touching his forehead to stop the spinning - it seeps into his body, the warmth he doesn't recognize, from his fingertips to his cock, and he's not sure if the odd weight at the bottom of his stomach is making him feel sick or energized.

In front of the mirror his clothes melt so easily he barely thinks about the spell. It's an instinct, a reflex. It's natural.

He touches himself lazily, almost accidentally. He wants it to look like an accident. 

It seems his heart may pierce through his ribs any moment, so hard it pounds, echoing in the empty room, filling his mind with constant pulsing. It’s the most severe headache in his life and yet, he knows it’s not  _ everything _ .

He tries to look at himself, to keep track and observe, but it’s hard to look when his eyes flutter shut every time his fingers do as much as ghost above his skin, hair standing up to follow the movement, and he feels each of them, electrified and tense.

The empty glass on his bedside table shutters.

It throws him off guard. His lungs constrict and Credence coughs, so suddenly he loses his balance. 

In the mirror, he can see the flush leaving his face, glassy eyes staring at him from the other side.

 

* * *

 

There’s something odd about Mr. Graves fiance’s thoughts, Queenie thinks, rubbing the bridge of her nose.

She’s not trying to listen, not really. But she would be lying if she said she’s not curious.

In every department she visited this week he was the only gossip. From the girls in archives to Madam President herself - everyone wanted to know who was the man that had captured Mr. Graves. Someone told her in a hushed whisper he was the only child of the last sultan of the Ottoman Empire. Someone else was sure he was a descendant of Cassandra herself. Abernathy insisted that when Mr. Graves visited his office to get his reports back, his eyes were clouded as if he was cursed. She laughed it off. If Mr. Graves’ eyes were clouded, the reason was probably much less sinister.

Everyone who met Mr. Graves that day could feel the sweet scent lingering on his clothes. An Omega, a loved one. She knows the difference. And though it’s only the beginning of winter, filled with rain and wind, he felt like ice and fire and smoke whispering in bare trees, like the cold sun of late December.

His thoughts were covered by a thick mist and the only thing Queenie could see was water, empty and calm, an island hovering in the distance. Illusion. An easy technique to fool a legilimens, she knows it well.

When she asked Tina - one of the few people who got a chance to met him - her sister was silent like a stone.  _ It’s a secret, Q,  _ Tina said, avoiding her eyes,  _ you know he’s a private man _ .

That night, Tina kept using all of her Auror tricks to make her stay away and Queenie understood.

There’s a reason for her to stay away and it’s important. Tina’s worried. She worries a lot, but rarely so intently.

Maybe, she thinks, watching Mr. Graves take his hand, he won’t even feel it.

The mist hovering right above the surface of his thoughts is odd but not entirely unfamiliar. She’s almost sure she felt it before.

On the dancefloor, the two of them make an unusual pair. He is tall enough to look down at Mr. Graves and when he leans down to whisper something into his ear, Mr. Graves laughs. They seem happy, Queenie decides, her feet moving under the table, tapping to the rhythm.

If there’s anything off about this whole affair it’s how quickly Mr. Graves decided to make it official.

Not that she's blaming him. 

The melody changes. Her feet adjust to the new rhythm. On the dancefloor - polished and dark, like the night sky it’s pretending to be, causing some headaches here and there - Mr. Graves and his fiance go through a set of complicated figures and Queenie doesn’t have to hear Madam President’s thoughts to know she got elbowed by Mr. Graves. Somewhere in the small crowd near the window, a woman thinks they look very much in love, Mr. Graves and him. And that their children will be fortunate; to have Percival Graves for a father is more than a child could wish for. On the other side of the room - it looks like a garden at night, a garden where the ground is the sky - a man thinks how much he’d give to spend a night with an Omega like this, so exotic and foreign, but then Queenie hears his smirk and the next thought; he’d never want to marry an Omega taller than him.

She winces.

The tune changes again. Mr. Graves never leaves his side.

It’s an unspoken rule, staying away from Omegas like him. Engaged. 

There’s something terribly archaic about it, she thinks, but as she catches another thought - not a pleasant one, something sweaty and loud and rough - she decides that maybe it’d be better to put some rules on unmated Alphas rather than Omegas.

She flirted with enough Alphas to know.

Her eyes fall on him again.

Tina cares for him.

Really, it's not that hard to figure it all out.

She's seen it in Madam President's thoughts, the anger at Mr. Graves and the helplessness. He gave her an ultimatum. She didn't like it. But she had to agree to keep him in New York.

Across the room, he spares her a glance.

For a brief moment, she sees it more clearly, the same thing Mr. Graves is thinking about. A cold, winter sea, a shadow hovering in the distance. The sky is a calm, pastel blue shade. No birds in sight. They're too far away from the shore.

Soon, the shadow takes a more solid shape. Rough around the ages, it's skin-cutting and freezing. Her fingers tremble.

An iceberg, not an island, she realizes, and the thought stings.

It stays in front of her eyes for another heartbeat - the iceberg, the silent sea, the cold clutching at her neck - but then it ends. She sees nothing more than a pair of dark eyes watching her from above Mr. Graves' shoulder.

She never really knew him, and it was hard to read an Obscurus. But the whispers aren't entirely new.

There's something of a hawk in him, she thinks. Something of a cat too. A jaguar, perhaps.

She smiles. That's what she always does. Usually, it helps more than mind-reading. And this mind, she can barely read.

He smiles back. She sees little of the man she remembers from Tina's memories, the ones that were made public during Mr. Graves’ trial. 

The waltz ends. The woman thinking about Mr. Graves’ future children claps. A few other guests join her.

Mr. Graves seems unexpectedly flustered. His arm curls around Credence and Credence presses his lips to Mr. Graves’ brow. 

To soothe him, Queenie knows how it works. After everything that had happened, Tina needed a lot of soothing. And Newt had to go.

The music starts again. It’s a light, sweet melody, and the balls of pure light hanging above her head pulse to the rhythm. It’s a pity Jacob couldn’t come. She put on her favourite dress and her most cheerful smile, but she doesn’t feel like partying.

An iceberg, not an island, she thinks. And she understands.

 

* * *

 

“The possibility of unexpected levitation drops nearly three times if you use them dried. Newt promised to send me some… Are you even listening, Percy?”

They are walking back home. Escaping the dancefloor was more difficult than he imagined, when so many people wanted to see him and congratulate Percival - always in that order, always acting as if he was mute - but in the end he had enough of it, pretending to feel dizzy. There was some truth to it; he felt not quite like himself all day long. The guests parted for him like the sea had once for Moses and soon, they were both free, landing in the place Credence already learned to call home.

"Did you like it?"

Percival's voice sounds a bit muffled from behind the scarf tied high around his ears. Credence can barely see his eyes like this.

He's sure now; he didn't have to use that much wool on it.

But the colour is nice and it compliments Percival's eyes. Credence doesn't think he should be blaming himself for anything here.

Then, he smiles.

"I did." His hands finds Percy's. He likes it way too much, hiding it in Percival's pocket, lacing fingers with him. "Your mother doesn't seem to hate me."

It’s way past midnight and they should be sleeping, but their blood is buzzing and the ritual magic keeps them awake; Credence heard its whisper back in the garden, and later on, under his feet, as if the dancefloor was a real sky and the stars were trying to talk to him, sing with him, not so different from his own shadows. Tonight, they’re sated too. 

Not much has changed, Credence thinks. They were already bonded; not even death managed to part them. And yet.

He feels it more in the air than in him, the difference. 

Something about his scent, or maybe his sight. The way things feel under his touch. Even the surface of Percival’s skin seems new. 

He knows the lines of it and the little scar next to his ring finger, but somehow, they’re more now.

They’re as much a part of Percival as they’re a part of him.

They walk by the frozen pond. It's only middle of December, but the cold is severe. Worse than two years ago.

"She's enamoured, everyone is," Percival says, and Credence thinks it's not that hard to believe him.

It's not always a pleasant feeling, learning to accept love. But some days, it comes to him easily.

He's not sure how much of him they love, how much of Credence, and it gets confusing at times. They only know a man with a made up name, one that doesn't exist.

"Did  _ you  _ like it?" He asks instead, thumb brushing the inside of Percival's hand.

“Not really. I wouldn’t trust any of them.”

“Not even Madam President?”

Percival doesn’t say anything, but Credence feels his  _ not even her _ under his skin. It worries him, how distant Percival grew from his people, how estranged. Like a stray dog kicked too hard, he’s always ready to attack.

“I’m sure she wasn’t hiding another death sentence in her handbag.”

“If something happened-” There’s so much bitterness in his words Credence feels his heart ache. “I failed you before.”

The sigh building in his lungs leaves him at last. His shoulders drop. It’s so cold he sees his own breath melt into the night.

“Is this what things will be like now? This guilt, this… regret? I’m not dead anymore.”

He feels Percy stop. It’s so sudden his hands slips away from Percy’s pocket.

“Sometimes I wonder… You could have everyone, everything,” he’s talking so quietly Credence has to take a step closer to hear him. “Sometimes I feel like I trapped you.”

It tugs at his heart in the new, new way, and he sees it - the fear of losing him and the fear of letting him go, the constant battle to let him do whatever he wants, the worry - and it hurts and angers him, and his heart speeds up, thudding like an old, bronze bell.

“Am I bird, Percy? A butterfly?” He can’t stop himself once it starts. “Do you think I couldn’t walk away if I wanted?”

His breath doesn’t falter, his eyes don’t leave Percy’s. It’s been a long time since they did. 

“Don’t ask me why when you already know.”

Under his skin, he can feel his blood pulsing, warming him up.

His hand finds Percy’s cheek. There are shadows under his eyes and Credence wishes he could kiss them away.

And so he does.

Cold touches cold, and his nose bumps into Percy’s. It’s not a successful try.

But he feels Percy smile, and there’s a hand on his back, holding him close.

“Hello,” he says, standing so close he could could name every shade of Percy’s eyes and count all the freckles on his nose if he hadn’t done it already a few times before. 

“Hello.” This time, Percy doesn’t sound miserable.


	3. Chapter 3

There’s something new about the air around Credence.

Sipping her tea, Tina decides that he looks well. He smells well too.

He eats Jacob’s pączkis asking for an extra serving, and after the first few cautious sentences, he talks more - about Italy, about Newt, about his studies - and though she tries to be mad - at Mr. Graves and Newt, she could never be mad at Credence - she smiles instead. 

Credence seems happy.

“So you’ll adopt her? Your little sister?” She hears Queenie ask. 

“If they don’t find her parents,” Credence says, and Tina thinks it’s mildly amusing that there’s a person Queenie has to actually talk to. “And if they do, I’d like her to visit. If she’d want to.”

“I’m sure she’d want to see you,” she says. 

Credence smiles, the sad smile again.

“And when you have your own, honey,” Queenie says, “I’m sure she’ll be excited. And we'll help you too. Right, Teenie?”

The glass in Credence’s hand shatters so suddenly Tina barely manages to protect them all from the shreds. With a quick, violent gesture - up and down, like a rainbow joining two distant ends of sky after a storm - it shields them and soon, there's only dust in the air, and it makes her cough.

It tastes bitter, like juniper.

“I’m sorry,” Credence says from the other side of the table and she's by his side so quickly she's worried it may scare him.

He's motionless. 

When she tries to look into his eyes, they're covered by mist.

"I'm sorry," he says again, lips barely moving.

“Did you hurt yourself?” She asks.

It seems he can’t answer but when Tina reaches for his hand, Credence doesn’t move away. 

There is no visible damage where there should be at least some.

She can’t see the old scars anymore, the ones she remembers from the past, and the new ones are smaller. Normal. 

She realizes he must've gotten a new skin somehow and it makes her shiver, because now she knows. For some time, Credence wasn't really there. He was somewhere else.

"I'm sorry," Credence says and this time his fingers move against hers. 

She holds his hand. It's cold.

She's not sure what to do.

Queenie is still sitting in her chair, all colour gone from her face, and Tina wishes her sister could read Credence's mind. That she'd know what to say.

She was never too good at it, comforting. That's not what Alphas are for, she thinks, but with Credence next to her, it sounds like a poor excuse.

"We can't," Credence says suddenly, and Tina feels the urge to jump at his words, so unexpected they are, so quiet and so certain. "I can't."

"Are you sure?"

Queenie's voice is quiet too, as if she hasn't quite come back to herself yet, but there's the warmth in it, the one Tina knows so well. Warmth and care. Compassion.

"We tried. Many times."

It takes Tina a moment to realize what they're talking about and though she tries not to, her ears burn. There's something slightly terrifying in thinking about Mr Graves like this; he's almost like a father to her, and she hears Queenie muffle a laugh into her sleeve.

When she looks up, Credence seems confused by her reaction.

"Teenie can't imagine Mr. Graves... becoming a father," Queenie explains. Tina wishes her sister wasn’t so amused.

"He'd be a good father," Credence says, and he sounds slightly offended.

"Oh, that's not what she means, honey," Queenie says, her teeth flashing in a smile, "she's just embarrassed thinking about the process."

"Oh," Credence says. 

His ears are at least as red as hers.

"Are you sure?" Queenie asks again, ignoring them both. "When was your last heat?"

She's so practical about it, Tina thinks, not in the clinical, scary way, but more like a caring friend, and she's thankful Queenie's there. 

For a long moment Credence is quiet and his hands tremble a bit, his breathing getting slow and deliberate.

He's thinking what to say, Tina guesses, and she rubs the tip of her thumb against his knuckles, trying to help. 

"I-" Credence starts and stops, choking on a breath. "I don't-" he tries again, but his voice gives way. 

"It's ok," Tina says, though she's pretty sure it’s not. 

They stay silent for another long moment. She can hear the clock in their living room ticking steadily and she wonders if Mrs. Esposito noticed the third pair of tracks in the melting snow outside their tenement house. They should've used a quick melting charm to clear the steps. 

She wonders why Credence's hands are so cold and if Mr. Graves is really taking care of him. It feels unfair to accuse him of not doing so, but she knows him. Only a bit, maybe, but it's enough. He can't even take care of himself. Maybe he dresses smart, but did he ever bring himself his own lunch? Did he ever go home on time?

She only knows because she so rarely did herself.

She wonders how much will change now. If Mr. Graves will allow someone so close. If Credence will. They seem so unexpected but somehow, they fit, just like in her old plans. 

"I think it's me," Credence says. He's avoiding her eyes. "I'm... sick. I've been for a long time."

When he stops, it's only to take a breath. Then, he speaks again:

"After the first one, she made it stop."

Tina doesn't have to ask who made it stop. The dying flame of her anger wakes again, blood rushing to her heart. She thinks that maybe, if she could bring someone else from the dead, it'd be her. So she could kill her herself.

"I didn't  feel anything," Credence says, eyes on the floor. "It was gone."

Tina feels her eyes sting. She doesn't want to cry. 

"When he found me, it came back.” There’s a shadow of smile on Credence’s face. "But then he disappeared.”

Credence stops and Tina feels her heart sink. She knows that part of the story.

“He never knew, Grindelwald,” Credence says after another long pause. There’s something heavy about his words. “Maybe if he did, he wouldn’t hurt me.” 

Tina doesn’t want to say it aloud, but she thinks that maybe it’s better that he never knew. 

She meets Queenie’s gaze above the table. She doesn’t have to read her sister’s mind to know that she agrees.

“Maybe,” she says, trying to find the right words, “maybe it’ll come back again?”

“Maybe it will,” Credence says.

There’s something stubborn in him, something unbreakable too, Tina thinks. He’s distant, like an island or a star.

When she looks up, he meets her gaze at last.

His eyes are burning. His hands are cold.

 

* * *

 

It’s Percival’s voice that wakes him up.

He doesn’t understand the words at first, but Percival’s hand brushes his hair away from his face and it’s warm against his cheek. Comforting and soothing, it makes him want to lean closer and drape himself around Percival like the snake they had seen in London twisted around a lamb.

“Good evening,” he hears when Percival speaks again. His lips move slowly as Credence watches him. “Feeling better?”

He makes a sound, something halfway between a yawn and a  _ yes _ , and his fingers curl around Percival's neck, bringing him closer.

There’s melting snow on the tip of Percival’s nose and Credence smiles.

They kiss in the slow, lazy way Credence likes sometimes. He licks into Percival's mouth and along the back of his teeth and Percival moves away to tease the seam of his lips with the tip of his tongue. It's wet and soft, the way their lips move against one another, and Credence smiles when Percival noses up his cheek. 

He's above Credence now, the weight of him warm and heavy. It’s nice. Credence wishes Percival wasn't wearing any clothes.

He's still a bit wary of using magic in moments like this, afraid that something may go wrong. His fingers must do, and so, Credence stumbles to undo Percival's jacket.

It's not easy when there's nothing he wants more than to lay down. Percival's tongue is on his ear, moving slowly up and down, wet lips mouthing Credence's flesh and a breath escapes his throat. He feels like a body with little mind and his skin tingles. It feels itchy, as if it's too small to contain him. What he feels, what he wants, is grander than himself.

Under his fingers, the fabric of Percival's shirt is slippery and he wants to feel his skin, the drag of it under his touch. He knows it's warm like Percival's lips moving down his neck, remapping all the places he knows, the ones that makes Credence's heart beat harder, his breathing becoming shorter.

He likes how Percival moves against him, heavy, and he bares his neck, twisting to the right, wanting him everywhere, everywhere at once. There's a numbness between his ears, one that makes him focus on this only - how good it feels to be kissed, how soft. His legs part for Percival. It feels divine.

His fingers curl in Percival's hair, and he feels the way Percival grinds against him, hard. Credence's back arches off the bed to meet him. For a short moment, they're even closer and the pressure makes him dizzy with want. 

"Oh."

It slips off his tongue suddenly, an afterthought it could seem, and Credence doesn't know why it makes him anxious.

The shadow of stubble on Percival's chin grazes down his sternum, wonderfully itchy.

And yet, Credence feels his fingers fall down on the mattress, lifeless. He's suddenly aware of his heart beating harder than it should, in the heavy, stomping way that bringing distress.

"Oh," he says again when Percival's tongue dips into his navel and he knows why at last.

At the bottom of his stomach, there's an odd pressure. It has nothing to do with the other one between his legs and when Credence realizes what it means, he's paralyzed.

He tries to will his muscles to obey but with Percival still inching closer and closer to where he's hard, it’s impossible to stay focused.

He's terrified.

"Credence?" He hears Percival say and realizes that he has closed his eyes. 

When he opens them again, Percival's face is closer once more, worried.

"Everything alright?"

Percival is up on his knees, giving his space, and Credence tries to breathe. The air is cold against his skin.

"I need to use the bathroom," he says. He's sure his ears are red. They feel on fire. "I'm sorry," he adds.

"Oh," Percivals says. "There’s nothing to be sorry about.”

He moves and Credence moves too, trying not be too quick about it. 

"I'm sorry," he says again, even though Percival said he doesn't have to. When he sees the way Percival's pants stretch against his legs, he really does feel sorry.

"I'm not going anywhere," Percival smiles when he says it and Credence feels a little bit relieved.

He wonders if Percival will undress when he's gone. He hopes he will.

When he reaches the bathroom door at last, his moves get lightning fast. He's not sure how much longer he'll be able to control it. He wonders why is it happening and what did he eat or if maybe it's his cold being worse than usually. 

His stomach growls.

Credence unbuttons what's left to be unbuttoned of his sleeping pants, and there's no stain to be seen yet. It had happened once, and his face is still burning at the sole memory. Percival had to keep repeating for days that nothing happened and that it wasn't all that uncommon, and that with magic everything was easier. That there was no mess.

Still, Credence is thankful that he was fast enough this time.

Sitting down, he feels his muscles go oddly lax. He has no idea what’s going on. Maybe it's the blueberry pie. Maybe he ate too much.

Head resting on knuckles, elbows on knees, he breathes. Then, he waits.

There's the pressure in his stomach, and it reminds him of being hungry, but not quite. He's  _ not  _ hungry. And yet, he yearns for something.

Under his fingertips, Credence feels sweat forming above his brows.

He thinks his skin feels more itchy now. 

The pressure at the bottom of his stomach twists and Credence groans. Why is it taking so long?

He's used to his body acting not like it's supposed to, but this is new. Irritating.

"Credence?" Percival has to be standing on the other side of the door. "Everything alright?"

"Yes," he says, though he's almost sure everything  _ isn’t  _ alright.

Credence isn't sure if he should say something more, but when he opens his mouth -  _ I'll be back in a minute _ forming in his throat - another groan slips into their green bathroom.

It hurts.

"Credence?" Percival sounds alarmed. "Can I-"

"No," he says quickly, eyes shut and muscles tense. "I'll manage."

He doesn't hear Percival walk away and he wishes he had enough strength to tell him to go, but it feels like he's almost there and he doesn't want to lose his focus. The thing inside him feels close to giving in.

His eyes are stinging from effort and his head is spinning, but then - finally, Credence thinks - it slips.

"Oh," he says. 

There was no sound. His stomach still feels sore.

But there’s something else there too, something not entirely new, Credence realizes with a sparkle of revelation. He knows that feeling, he does.

When he gets up, the skin of his thighs is dry and he’s almost sure he’s wrong. It doesn’t feel the same.

In the mirror, his face doesn't look as sickly white as the other day. There are red patches all over his neck and arms and his cheeks look flushed. Credence knows that’s what a fever looks like. 

There's another word for it, but he doesn't dare think it. Not yet.

He’s uneasy. A bit afraid. Most of all, curious.

In his one man show, he’s both the moth and the flame that kills it.

He doesn’t dare to hope. It’s been so long he forgot how it should feel.

But when he bends, muscles quivering under his fingertips, down, down, he think it’s not entirely unfamiliar, all the nervous excitement. He’s never been so aware of anything in his life as he is of his own palm reaching between his legs.

Rubbing the pad of his thumb against his skin, he waits.

He regrets he’s not in bed. His arms hurt from the uncomfortable stretch.

He catches himself holding a breath. Behind his closed eyes, lights start dancing in odd shapes. 

When it leaves him at last, with a loud, unnatural whizz, his body slumps again the sink.

Then, he feels it.

At first he’s not sure.

So he rubs up, and then down, transfixed. Again. And again, just to be sure.

This time, when his eyes close, it’s because it feels nice. 

He chokes on a breathless laugh. 

It’s in the air too, a scent so faint he barely recognizes it as his own.

When he tastes it, it reminds him of honey. It’s rich, not at all what he remembers from the first time. Or the second. It’s thick and sweet and a bit sickening. 

His lips curve up in a smile.

"Credence," Percival says on the other side of the door and Credence startles. He forgot he's not alone. "What's going on?"

He wonders how odd must he sound from the other side and how worried Percival got but he's too full of it, the old-new feeling, too full of it to be focused on anything but it. 

He licks his finger again and his eyes close. There's so little of it, barely half of his fingernail, but - Credence hopes - maybe there will be more. 

When he stretches, his stomach feels empty. Yearning. 

There's no other feeling like this, Credence thinks, and it does feel like the first time. Back then, he had thought about Sara. Now, he’s thinking about Gaia. He feels so powerful it fills him to the brink.

Unconsciously, his hand rests on his stomach. His skin has never felt so warm.

His reflection looks at him with heavy, certain eyes. He looks the way he feels; mighty. Deadly beautiful too.

The air around him smells sweet. It's barely there, the hint of his scent, but Credence wonders if Percival can feel it too. How will he react when he feels it at last.

As if waiting for the question to be thought, Credence hears an answer.

It's a low, deep sound, the call of a jealous dog.

"Credence," Percival's voice sounds strained. "What is-"

"Can you feel it?" Credence asks, taking a step towards the door. This time, his skin moves differently. It slides.

"Are you alright?"

There's so much worry in Percival's words Credence feels his heart burst with an odd kind of joy and if he tried he couldn’t explain it clearly, but in that moment he knows Percival cares for him and for everything Credence may bring into the world. It hits him like a wave crushing above his head. He knew Percival cared for him, in the troubled way filled with guilt, and he knew that Percival loved him, but he'd never seen it as easily as in that moment.

When the door gives under his touch and he feels Percival so close, so real, his knees threaten to give. 

“Alright?” Percival is next to him,  holding him. “Should I contact Newt?”

He shakes his head, brushing his nose against the inside of Percival’s palm. Newt is the last person Credence wants to see right now. Newt means questions and samples and even more questions. There’ll be plenty of time for these things later.

Right now, Credence feels as if nothing could bring him more satisfaction than licking every inch of Percival’s skin, leaving his own scent all over him, making it known to the world whose Alpha Percival Graves was.

“You smell different,” Percival says. There’s something cautious about the way he says  _ different _ .

“I think it’s the season.”

Percival looks at him as if he can’t understand what Credence means. Credence thinks Percival’s body knows it already and that soon, his mind will follow.

“Do you want to…” Credence isn’t sure how to ask for what he wants. They’ve done it so many times and yet, this moment feels different. Suddenly, Credence feels shy.

“Only if you want to.” Percival’s hands keep him close. Just like Credence hoped, he did undress. “Credence?”

“I do.”

Percival’s chest is broad and soft with hair against Credence’s skin and when Percival picks him up, firm hands cupping his ass, Credence nuzzles as close as he can, breathing him in. 

“You smell different too,” he says, liking the sweat off Percival’s neck. “Like our alleyway.” 

“Are you trying to offend me?”

When his back hits the mattress, Percival is smiling at him from above, coming down right after, draping him in warmth where their stomachs meet. Credence feels his yearning deepen and though he’s been touched by the same lips only mere minutes ago, it feels as if years has passed. Percival’s cock is pulsing against his thigh. Credence’s fingers ghost over Percival’s back.

“You brought me coffee,” he breathes out, the memory hidden in mist. “Coffee and a hot dog.”

Percival breathes against his neck, short and hot, and Credence feels more and more like floating. It’s so nice. So good. 

There are teeth behind his ear, biting down, and Credence whimpers. It’s not pain, it’s not. It’s the ache of belonging, the two of them tied so close there’s no space between them to breathe anymore. The air passing between their lips - Credence licking into Percival’s mouth, so hot and wet and soft, Percival opening for him - is electrified and heavy and Credence feels dizzy.

If he thought he felt itchy before, he’s not sure how to name the thing he’s feeling now. It’s fire licking up his skin wherever Percival touches him, it’s the constant throbbing of his cock and everything inside him, it’s the bitterness of his pain turning into something else, something new.

Percival kisses his neck, then - his collarbone. Credence feels Percival’s nose tracing a line round his shoulder, and he knows Percival is scenting him, learning him like he never had a chance to before. Where his skin is soft and thin, Percival’s tongue feels different, and when it curls around his nipple, Credence’s back arches up to meet him.

He feels tingly all over.

Percival’s lips are insistent and hot, sucking, and Credence brushes his hair gently, the other hand holding Percival close. It has never felt this good.

His chest feels tense and when he gasps, Percival soothes him. 

He knows he’s wet now.

A dry thumb circles around his niipple, dipping into the flesh. Credence can’t help putting more pressure on Percival’s head. This may be the best thing he’s ever felt.

He almost doesn’t want Percival to move from where he is right now. The mattress is soft under his back and Credence feels warm and safe and as if time isn’t really a thing. There’s only Percival, the weight of him, his hands sneaking underneath Credence’s  body, embracing him. Every inch of him feels tender.

When Percival moves at last, nuzzling into his hand, leaving a soft kiss on the inside of his palm, they share a smile. Credence doesn’t understand fully what is happening to him, to them, and it doesn’t seem like Percival knows either. Credence thinks that, for now, they don’t have to understand.

“Should I,” Percival asks. 

“Check?”

Credence sees his own chest rise and fall in deep breaths. Percival is looking at him with so much care it hurts. 

“Stop?” He says. “Should I stop?”

Credence shakes his head. He doesn’t want Percival to stop. There’s so much anticipation in them, so much nervous excitement too. 

He desperately hopes it won't end with disappointment. 

"Check," Credence says, wondering if he sounds like he feels. "Please."

Percival's lips are back on his skin and his hands move too, drawing a line down his sides until they settle on his hip bones, thumbs pushing down and Credence thinks his insides rearrange themselves under the touch. There's nothing Percival couldn't do with him.

The sucking kisses fall on him again, down the line of his hair, and Percival breathes him in so hard Credence feels his cock throb against Percival's cheek. He's so full he thinks he could burst, and yet, there's still a place in him for more, carved in the shape of Percival.

Credence spreads his legs some more. 

Then, he watches Percival with the odd mixture of awe and longing that never really leaves him.

"What?" He hears Percival ask, looking up. His eyes are unfocused.

"Nothing," he says, brushing the stray lock off Percival's face. 

"Tell me? Please?"

"You look good between my legs, Mr. Graves."

Percival bites his thigh so suddenly Credence cries out loud. 

Then, they both laugh.

"Nervous?" Percival asks, sitting back. He keeps stroking the underside of Credence's knees.

"There's no need to get too hopeful," he says.

Percival nods, and Credence knows he understands. Maybe, he thinks, Percival wants this as much as he does. 

So he lays back and offers all of himself, everything he has. There's so little of him left. Some days he wonders if all of his came back from the other world.

But there's still enough of him to feel, enough to want. 

His hands find Percival's skull again, even though he doesn't have to guide him. 

When he feels Percival's breath against his taint, Credence's heartbeat gets unsteady, and when he hears the wet parting of Percival's lips, he doesn't try to stop the sound escaping his own throat. He's no longer sure if the wet trail sliding down his skin is Percival's spit or something else.

He's never felt this warm there, so open.

The soft groan emitting from Percival's throat goes right up his spine, setting his nerves aflame.

Credence closes his eyes. His fingers curl in Percival's hair. He wants him even closer.

And so, Percival noses in, mouth open and hot, hands, keeping Credence in place, digging into his hips. There's the tip of Percival's tongue, teasing him, and Credence can't believe he'd do that, not now. 

An annoyed whimper breacher the air between them.

Percival doesn't stop, tongue barely there, circling, and it drives Credence crazy with want.

Then, Percival draws in a breath so sharp, Credence's own nose flexes. There's a new feeling to it, something triumphant, he thinks, and his ankles curl around Percival's back, tracing a line down, until his heels rest on Percival's ass and he presses down, hard.

Percival's breath is burning against his skin.

"You smell even better here."

Before he can say something - anything - Percival licks a flat, wet stripe over his hole.

Then, his tongue sinks inside, and Credence can’t think about anything else to say.

His mind feels blank in the sweet, careless way he enjoys so rarely even these days, and his back arches off the bed despise Percival's hands trying to keep him down. He's been starved for a kiss it seems, an open-mouthed kiss between his legs, and the pleasure of it radiates up his body, from the place where Percival's tongue sinks into him, up to his head, his hair electrified. 

Credence presses his lips together, his body taut like a bow. Percival is rubbing against his hole, his evening stubble a sweet torture, lips wet and open. It's like a feast and Credence feels worshipped, all of him. There's no one else he'd offer it to and he hopes Percival knows. 

Credence shivers.

He's full of the odd energy, humming under his skin, rushing through his blood and it vibrates through him with every shaky breath. 

He wants even more.

When Credence feels Percival move away, a distressed sound leaves his mouth.

When he feels Percival move closer again, leaning so close Credence can see how wet his lips are, he breathes deeper again.

Percival's scent is like home and smoke and something wild and musky, an ancient bonfire, the sweat of labour. It makes Credence dizzy.

“Is it," Credence starts, but his throat is so dry his voice gives way.

“Would you want to try, Mr. Graves?” The air leaving Percival's parted lips brushes his face. “Taste yourself?”

Credence nods. It should make his repulsed, he thinks, and it’s a voice of the past. He doesn't want to feel repulsed by this. It's perfectly natural. It's him. 

Percival is soft against him, soft and warm, and when their lips meet, chase at first, Credence gets the taste. It's sweet enough to make him sick, but it doesn't and he feels so many things at once he thinks he may cry. It's been so long and he forgot. It doesn't feel as insistent as before. The pain is lesser too. 

But the taste, Credence thinks, his tongue rubbing against Percival's, his nails digging into Percival's back, the taste is almost the same. It's richer, more sublime maybe, but at its very core it's the same. His essence. His essence on Percival's tongue. His essence between his own legs, making him ready. 

He smiles into the kiss and Percival smiles with him. Against everything they know, they will hope again, Credence knows.

When Percival turns him onto his stomach, he follows. His hands are broad and warm and they bring Credence safety.

Then, they steal his breath away.

“Oh,” it’s the same sound again. Percival’s finger is pushing into him, and Credence feels his body pulse around it.

Settled between his legs, Percival kisses him again.

Credence thinks it won’t take long now. Every inch of his body is burning. He throbs and he trashes against Percival’s touch and his forehead presses into the white pillow. His hips rise up, his insides move. He feels Percival’s hand between his shoulder blades, and for the first time it seems colder than his own feverish skin.

Percival fucks him with three fingers. For now, it’s enough Credence thinks. The wet sound is loud enough to hear and Credence feels his slick trail from his hole, seeping warmth into his skin as it moves round his balls and down his cock, and he whines. It’s so good he’s not sure if it hurts.

He can’t count how many things he feels. There’s the insistent push of Percival’s fingers and the wet slide of his tongue. There’s the warmth between his legs and inside him and his nipples grazing against the sheets. There’s the damp spot against his open mouth. There’s Percival’s palm on his back.

Another sound leaves his mouth. He’s so close.

The bedsheet under him feels damp when he ruts against it.

Percival sucks on the tender rim of his hole and Credence hears the rush of slick leaving him with a wet slurp. His toes curl. His eyes close. His skin feels tight wrapped over his body.

Then, he shudders and falls and behind him, Percival does too, lips never leaving his skin, drinking him whole. For a long, blissful moment, he feels nothing but the bewildering warmth rushing through him in waves, and he sighs with content.

His body slumps against the mattress and Percival follows. A soft kiss falls on his ass where Percival’s cheek rests.

They lay in silence, trying to catch a breath. There’s not an ounce of willpower left in his limbs.

Percival is the first to move, sliding up the bed. When he’s closer, Credence kisses him, tasting himself again. They’re so lazy against each other, so slow. Credence’s head spins a bit.

“Drink,” he hears Percival say, and there’s a glass in front of his face.

It’s cool but not too cool and only when it slides down his throat Credence feels how thirsty he is.

When his head clears a bit, he wonders. He’s still not sure what is happening to him and why. Why like this, why now. Maybe his potions did work. Maybe he was eating well enough at last. 

Mindlessly, his hand moves down. His stomach is still so warm.

There’s something odd about this heat, Credence thinks; maybe it’s simply him.

Percival doesn’t say anything. But his hand feels sure and safe when it touches his and Credence knows they’re thinking about the same thing. The same scenario.

He nuzzles into the crook of Percival’s neck; his scent is all over him.

 

* * *

 

It  _ is  _ the scandal of the decade, Mrs. Graves thinks.

The  _ Ghost  _ is still writing about it. Somehow, they managed to take a picture. At night, in the park.

Even Violet, the same Violet who just a month ago pretended not to know her when they passed by each other at Miss Adelaide’s Couture, wrote her a note, asking - in words barely hiding her curiosity - if she’d want to come over for tea.

Tea and ill gossip, Mrs. Graves thinks, and the flames rise a bit higher in the fireplace.

The newspaper in her hands is still unopened, her own son not bothering to spare her a single look from the cover.

She wishes she could pretend to be mad. There’s little grace in Percival’s posture as he tries to kiss the man that had taken hold of his heart, his name too. But she hasn’t seen him this happy in a long time, and there’s so little she wants from life now. 

To see him happy makes her happy.

She  _ is  _ a little scandalized, yes, and for reasons different than Violet or any other of her friends may be thinking about, but it’s obvious she couldn’t stop Percival from doing whatever he sees fitting. Not even from marrying the man who almost exposed them all.

She can’t be sure, of course, but his smell isn’t all that new. She felt it before.

That man didn’t come out of a fairytale. He doesn’t look like one.

There’s something of a ghost in him, Mrs. Graves thinks, looking at the photo once more, something of a demon too. And he only smiles at a few people.

The road up the stairs doesn’t seem so long. She’s been walking more these days, arranging things. Percival’s old room is hardly suitable for what’s coming.

In his frame, Arcturus is sleeping already or maybe pretending to. He didn’t take the news well. It’s not the marriage he wanted for the family. 

Mrs. Graves thinks she doesn’t mind it at all.

Walking down the silent corridor, she wonders how long will it take them, realizing. 

When the time comes, she’ll be ready.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did.   
> This story was planned as a series from the beginning, so there will be more, though I can't promise _when_ exactly. Expect more Mrs. Graves, Omegas bonding over pregnancy and Percival Graves being slightly terrified by the perspective of having a child under his roof.


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